


Right Thru Me

by tied_up_like_two_ships



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Ghost Harry, Human Zayn, M/M, basically just that, cheese lots of cheesy stuffs, ghost au, yeah idk what to tag so bye, yeah....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tied_up_like_two_ships/pseuds/tied_up_like_two_ships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you been here the entire time I’ve lived here?”</p><p>“Yeah, I have. I’ve been here longer so… makes this place more mine than yours, honestly.”</p><p>Zayn swore. “Fuck, that’s embarrassing. You didn’t see me naked did you?”</p><p>Harry would’ve blushed if he could, and he was glad Zayn couldn’t tell he was lying when he said, “No.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Thru Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was on my tumblr, but I am also posting it here :)
> 
> Disclaimer: One Direction are made up of five sexy talented boys, and they are not mine. Trust me. I wouldn't be here if they were ;D

The day he got there, Harry thought he was gorgeous. The first thing he saw was his big eyelashes and golden brown eyes, and it all got better from there down to his feet. The good thing was that Harry could look without feeling perverted because he was a ghost. Okay, he still did feel a bit perverted, but this guy was beautiful, with is sculpted jaw and perfectly styled up hair and his dark brown leather coat that fitted him just right and those tight black ink pants.

But the day after, even though the guy was gorgeous, Harry didn’t like how he lived. He lived in a mess of…art. And art usually wasn’t a mess, but this was messy. The walls were coated in different shades of the rainbow, and boards of drawings and paintings jam packed all over. And there always seemed to be a tarp on the floor for Zayn, the gorgeous guy, to paint.

Harry didn’t like messes. He lived clean, orderly, and even if he wasn’t ‘living’ now did that mean he had to deal with this until Zayn left?

Oh, and he smoked, and not just cigarettes. Harry hadn’t seen so much green in his entire 17 years of life, or his 30 or so years of ghosting. To be honest, he hadn’t left this house often in those 30 years—he couldn’t too much, it gave him chest pain. But still, the two previous people who stayed here had some, too, and Zayn was pilled to his neck in the stuff, and it’d only been a week since he’d moved in to the flat.

One night Zayn had put on an action movie and Harry was sitting on the couch, rather he was hovering over it comfortably, trying to enjoy it but Zayn just kept painting behind it, the smell of it even getting to Harry who didn’t have a working nose anymore. The slashing of the brush on paper and clunking of him dipping it into the paint was getting on his nerves. It was probably because he had a bad day—yes, even ghosts have those—of being lonely. Zayn hadn’t gotten home until an hour ago, and he’d left early, before Harry noticed he’d gone.

Now, Harry wasn’t dependent on people, he had gone a long time without much contact. It was about once a year he showed himself to somebody and usually it was a child. They could tell and it would be cute. It was just that now that he had somebody to live with, to stay with, when the house wasn’t filled with music or talking or something, like an actual living persons’ aura and presence, he felt so alone and unhappy, his energy drained from him. So the reason the noises Zayn was making got him pissy was because it’d been so quiet all day.

Nearly using his trick to turn off the TV but deciding not to waist his strength, Harry rounded the couch and glared down at him. But then his glare softened, and something clicked that probably should’ve clicked days ago. Clicked right into place and made him jerk in realization.

It was obvious Zayn was gorgeous, but Harry hadn’t ever looked at him when he painted or scribbled or anything of the sort, he just got mad that another mess would be put on his walls. Well, their walls, now. And Zayn was a bad boy, that’s how Harry described him when he first saw him in the doorway. It fit him, honestly, with how he looked and all. Harry did have tattoo’s, but that’s all that made him look “bad”, really. And right now all that “bad” of Zayn’s was turned into something softer, gentler. It was delicate, the way he painted, though some strokes were longer and harsher, his hands held the brush like it was a precious tool, coloring things to life. And he was making a concentrated face that was simply adorable.

Zayn didn’t make a mess, Harry thought and realized. He didn’t make messy art. He painted his soul onto these boards and walls and paper books.

Like Harry did when he wrote music all those years ago, before the accident that made him like this. They were the same, really.

And that was what made Harry appear, and greet Zayn with a big loud, “Hello!”

Expecting Zayn to greet him back, instead the boy looked up and gasped, eyes wide, and fell backwards into a flat tin-foiled thing of purple paint, his butt splashing into it.

Harry laughed, because Zayn was so effortlessly graceful all the time and this was clumsy cute. “I'm sorry!” he said through laughs.

Zayn glared, “You think you’re funny, you fucking sneak? Where the hell did you come from? I'm calling the cops.” Zayn reached into his pocket, grabbed the square cell. Before he could dial the number his phone was taken out of his hand. But not by other hands, it floated in front of him. Like magic was suspending it in midair. Was that stupid kid a magician or was he losing his mind? Maybe all of the weed he’d had was finally fucking him over.

A scream startled from his throat when the curly haired kid just appeared, holding Zayn’s phone in his hand right in front of him on the blue tarp. “Jesus fucking hell!”

Harry held up his hands, Zayn’s phone clasped closed between his long fingers, and backed away. “Hey, calm down.”

Zayn gaped. “Calm down?! You just appeared outa thin air!” He tried to scoot away from this weirdo but he was still stuck in the purple paint’s makeshift container, and his ass was starting to go numb from the cold. So he just sat there, staring up at this invisible kid that had big green eyes and curly hair, soft pink lips, and the prettiest but weirdest tattoos ever under his plaid shirt opened in the middle. Zayn shook his head, and glared again, trying to seem like he wasn’t terrified of him.

“I'm a ghost, what do you expect? I do that sometimes.” He shrugged. Harry had been through this a hundred times, and he took it all calmly, he was a calm person, normally. He handed the phone back to Zayn, who was sitting scared in the paint still. His tanned hand was shaky but he took the phone, not touching Harry’s cool skin at all. Harry eyed him, and raised a brow. “Get outta the paint, Zayn, before you get sick.”

While Zayn didn’t like that the ghost knew his name, he did get his ass out of the paint because it was uncomfortable and disgusting. “How do you know my name?” he asked warily. He stood tall, his ass dripping purple onto the blue surface that crinkled below his feet, down his legs, too. His clothes were ruined.

Harry grinned. “I live here, that’s how. I hear things. Like your name.”

Zayn bit at his lip, looking him up and down. The kid wore black pants with his plaid shirt, and looked normal, though his color was a bit pale. It did explain the disappearing act, and Zayn wasn’t an idiot. It was a bit hard to believe in, but he wasn’t ignoring the facts before him. Ghosts, they actually existed, and he was meeting a very attractive one in his own place. Zayn wasn’t lucky, but right now he counted himself pretty lucky to be meeting… whatever his name this was. “A ghost, huh?”

Harry was glad that Zayn was relaxing with this. It’d be easier to be friends, and room-mates. “Yup. Harry the Ghost.” He smiled.

“Have you been here the entire time I’ve lived here?”

“Yeah, I have. I’ve been here longer so… makes this place more mine than yours, honestly.”

Zayn swore. “Fuck, that’s embarrassing. You didn’t see me naked did you?”

Harry would’ve blushed if he could, and he was glad Zayn couldn’t tell he was lying when he said, “No.” He had, only once when Zayn had come out of the bathroom without a towel on, and after that he deemed once was good enough, ghosts and horny did not mix, it was awful and painful because he got no relief. He stayed away from Zayn’s room when he went into the bathroom, or at night, or in the mornings—all times that Zayn and his hand got busy.

“You’re a rotten liar,” Zayn said, grinning sexily (really, that was the only way to describe it). “But hey, it’s cool. Wana watch some TV while I clean up the mess you made?”

“Hey, you made it! I can’t even touch anything!” Harry said, feeling blamed.

There was a curious tilt of Zayn’s head. “Really? You can’t touch anything at all? You just touched my phone.”

“Well, okay so I can, but only, like, sometimes.” He shrugged. “It’s all about concentration.”

“So we can’t bro hug?”

Harry laughed. “If I try really hard, yeah.”

“After I clean up my bum, we’ll hang out, yah?”

Of course, Harry nodded, and went to sit on the sofa with great attentiveness.

And that’s how and when they became besties. Harry got used to the messes, the art all over and Zayn making said art, because Zayn got used to his random disappear/appear-ing acts that he sometimes did on purpose to scare the crap out of him. But hey, that’s what friends do. One night Harry went out with Zayn to a club with his living best friend, Liam, without him knowing about it, and later he appeared in the bathroom seconds before Zayn was about to piss. That was his best, really.

Weeks into their friendship, Harry and Zayn were lounging on the couch, like most nights, and Zayn was doodling in his notebook/journal. “What are you drawing, Z?”

“Random things. Cars, batman, the usual.”

“No flowers?” Harry teased, leaning over.

“You want to wear that flower crown again?” Zayn chuckled. Louis had gotten them as a joke, and Harry took it and wore it all night, and the rest of the week.

“Always, babe.”

Looking into his notebook, and back up at Harry, suddenly Zayn asked, “Can I draw you?”

It was startling to hear. “Wh-what? Why would you want to draw me?”

Zayn shrugged. “You’re just really…beautiful, Harry.”

If he could blush, he would. That was the nicest thing anybody could ever say to him. “I-I don’t know… I guess…?”

Zayn grinned, and Harry sighed, knew he had to let him now. With him looking so adorable and excited, eager to sketch more. “How do you want me?” he teased.

Zayn pointed to the corner of the sofa. “There, the lights perfect there. Stay still.”

Watching Zayn draw as the thing he was drawing was different. He wasn’t outside looking in, he was the in. All the focus was on Harry, and it made him feel special, to have Zayn’s total focus, his pretty eyes only on him. His heart ached, actually, about halfway through, and Zayn said he was nearly done with the picture. That was when Harry’s face felt tight, and his eyes stung. His feet tingled, and then that tingling when upward, consuming his lower half, then to his hair, which at his scalp was as tight as his cheeks and nose.

“Zayn, I feel…I feel weird.”

Zayn stopped. “I'm done. No, wait,” and he did one little thing, and smiled, said, “Now I'm done.”

Then Harry gasped, and it was like the sun shone only on him, like the partials of light flew into his body, under his skin, and he felt…alive. He felt the burn of light. He was breathing, struggling but actually inhaling oxygen. And even if it was strange, and unheard of, he knew… he knew he wasn’t a ghost, somehow.

“I'm alive!!”

Zayn was shocked. “What? Wh—what do you—?”

“I'm breathing! I can feel and smell and oh my god I'm alive!” Harry’s face was in a permanent grin.

The other living person now was dead still, eyes ranking over him. “I—you’re not…pale.”

Harry laughed loudly. “That’s all you can say! I'm breathing! I'm alive! I can touch you without having to concentrate so hard!” Harry gasped. “I can touch you!” And he threw himself at Zayn who sat on the table, and just breathed in his smell at his neck, which was more intense than anything he’d smelled as a ghost. It was beautiful, like if he were underwater for years and rose up to a forest filled with rich flowers and pines.

“I have the sudden urge to kiss you,” Zayn mumbled.

Harry blushed—blushed!—and leaned back, eyes heavy. “Then kiss me, Zayn.”

The kiss was beautiful, and powerful, and though Harry had no idea what happened or how he was suddenly alive, all he knew were Zayn’s lips, and the feeling in his tummy. Happiness, and light, and the feeling of being alive.


End file.
